There is so little of life, and it is fraught with chance. We meet, we don't meet, we take the wrong turning, and still bump into each other. We conscientiously choose the ‘right road' and it leads nowhere.

There's a booth in Grand Central Station where you can go and record your life. You talk. It tapes. It's the modern-day confessional—no priest, just your voice in the silence. What you were, digitally saved for the future. Forty minutes is yours. So what would you say in those forty minutes—what would be your death-bed decisions? What of your life will sink under the waves, and what will be like the lighthouse, calling you home?

The continuous narrative of existence is a lie. There is no continuous narrative, there are lit-up moments, and the rest is dark.